Page 4 of In the Bones
“We’re all set,” she told Woody. “I’ve got the banquet room at Castle View booked starting at seven, with a buffet dinner and open bar.”
“Jesus,” he said. “That’s going to cost hundreds.”
More like thousands, Mac had thought. “My idea, my treat, remember?” She hadn’t expected an offer of help anyway. She knew Woody couldn’t afford it, and she really didn’t mind footing the bill. If Mac couldn’t spend her savings on family, what good was it? With no long-term partner or kids of her own, she’d always spoiled her sister and two nieces. Still, Woody’s comment sounded vaguely accusatory, his reaction troubling. “Seriously,” she said, “I want to do this. All I need is for you to deliver Nicole and the girls.”
“I know,” he said. “I’ll handle it.” His gaze shifted from her face to the walls of the low-ceilinged room. Island Adventure needed an update, its blue walls with sponge-painted clouds a throwback to the aughts that made the joint feel like a daycare, but it wasn’t her place to criticize Woody’s business. “Sunday night,” he said, looking at her once more. “We’ll be there.”
“Great. I know Nicole’s having a hard time lately. Hopefully this will cheer her up.”
“A hard time?” Woody said, jaw grinding.
“It’s all the college stuff, right? I’m sure Blair and Alana are struggling too.” She’d said it quickly, eager to throw Woody off the scent. He didn’t know how much his wife confided in Mac about their personal lives, and anyway, Mac wasn’t lying. Her eldest niece Blair’s impending departure for college was affecting them all. Nicole and Woody’s two daughters were fifteen months apart and wore their sisterhood like a badge. Ask Blair or Alana, and they’d say they were best friends. Mac and Nicole’s relationship wasn’t quite like that—the age difference between them sometimes gaped like a torn seam—but the girls had something special. When Blair left at the end of the summer, it was going to sting. Woody should have known that.
Woody should have known a lot of things.
“Sure. Of course,” he said as his bones clicked into place once more. “We’re gonna miss Blair like crazy.” His neck and cheeks had turned the same meat-red as the dogs on the grill. There was a countertop between them, but Mac could feel the heat coming off Woody’s body in waves. “Hey, I’ve been meaning to ask. How’s the campaign going?”
Mac held his gaze. As much as possible, she partitioned her job from her personal life, but the screen wasn’t as impenetrable as she would have liked. Through friends with the state police, she had access to information about all manner of active cases, and often had to beat Woody’s inquiries off with a stick. This one wasn’t about curiosity, though. Woody was deflecting, turning the conversation to something he knew made her just as uncomfortable as the subject of his wife made him.
“So far so good,” she said with an ersatz smile, hoping he would buy it. Mac had announced she was seeking reelection a few months prior, kicking off her campaign with a Facebook post of her smiling face and a community center fundraiser in Watertown. She hadn’t expected a challenger. Mac had served Jefferson County as sheriff for two consecutive terms, and she felt that she’d done a good job. It sure as fuck hadn’t been easy. Over the past few years, the region had seen more crime than in the prior two decades. There was the missing child, snatched from Boldt Castle on a field trip, and a spate of grislymurders. Three winters ago, Mac had risked her life to neutralize a threat on icebound Running Pine Island.
It all led Mac to wonder if the area was undergoing some kind of fundamental change. The residents of Jefferson County had always dwelled in a state of relative peace, toiling all winter so they could afford the boats that, in summer, sang their siren song. Somewhere along the way, distrust and greed had rolled in like a fog in the night. The problems that had long since plagued other parts of the country were here now, too. There was no hiding from them anymore, not even at the nation’s outer edge.
One more term before retirement: that had been Mac’s plan. Then along came Bruce Milton. She knew him already, of course. Bruce had no law enforcement experience, but he’d been the mayor of Alexandria Bay, and that gave him a platform. A fan base, too. Though they’d been friendly in the past, even meeting once or twice for dinner, Mac and Bruce hadn’t always seen eye to eye. And now, Bruce Milton was arguing that it was time for a change.A Vote for Milton Is a Vote Against Crime. She’d seen the campaign posters stuck in the grass and splashed on retail shop windows, and they made her blood boil. Mac had fought violent crime for more than two decades while Bruce pumped hands as a politician. He had no qualms about using her history against her, though, and that might be her downfall.
“Well, you’ve obviously got our vote,” said Woody. “Blair’s too, now that she’s legal.”
“I appreciate that. Hope it picks up for you. Ah, speaking of which.”
A car was pulling into the lot, and Mac was willing to bet that the shiny white Tesla belonged to a tourist.
“Oh. Nice.” Woody said it tightly, watching through the window as a man flung open the car door. “Hey, thanks for stopping by, Maureen.” He’d come around the counter to guide her outside, suddenly eager for her to get going.
“Yeah. See you,” she told her brother-in-law, her eyes trained on the man in the designer shoes who’d come to putt alone.
FIVE
Tim
The Bean-In was crowded for a Thursday morning, and Tim Wellington wondered, not for the first time, how this moment kept sneaking up on him. May flicked summer on like a switch, the easy solitude of winter capsized by hordes of tourists, yet Tim was eternally caught unawares. One minute Alexandria Bay was a sleepy riverfront village, nearly every face familiar, every voice that of a neighbor or friend. The next, he was waiting a full ten minutes for two medium drips and a cruller.
“Whew,” he said when he got back to the car, handing Valerie the coffees and pastry so he could buckle in. “I swear I wasn’t reading the paper back to front in there. That line was killer.”
“If you ask me,” Valerie said as she blew across the slot in the lid of her takeout cup, “the long weekend can’t come soon enough. Some actual human activity would be a welcome departure from eight months of deafening, soul-sucking silence.”
For his part, Tim would choose the silence every time, but Valerie Ott craved action. With her slicked-back hair, crisp collared shirts, and unapologetic tenacity, Tim often wondered if she’d missed her calling as a special agent with the FBI. Instead, she’d left her state police special investigator job in Oneida, moved her teenage daughter to A-Bay, and made the place their home. Valerie had only seen two summers on the river, though, and whether she realized it or not, living with the seasonal residents and tourists was an adjustment—this year in particular. Their one-off burglary with no evidence of burglars had turned into a freaking crime spree.
They were on their way to another Cape Vincent home, the third suspected break-in of the week. Tim and Jeremy Solomonhad spent the previous afternoon in a place on Millen Bay, where the longtime owner of a sprawling Craftsman had found evidence of a fire in a hearth that hadn’t been used in years. Upon searching the house, he’d discovered that someone had taken the purple fleece he used for boating. His call to the village police had been transferred to the barracks, where Tim’s investigation was already underway.
The woman they were set to interview today claimed someone had raided her pantry. “I know what I left in there when I closed up,” she’d told Tim over the phone. “There are certain things I always have on hand.” The list had included unopened jars of peanut butter and jam, ingredients for s’mores, and several bottles of pinot grigio. “That’s how I know I’m not wrong,” she’d explained. “I bought a whole case not long before we closed up for the season. There are only two bottles left.”
Tim had asked all the logical questions: who routinely spent time in the house? Did anyone else have a key? The woman lived alone with her husband, both long-since retired, their grandkids far too young to nick the wine. No one else had easy access to the property.
The story was eerily familiar.
As he and Valerie drove west on James Street, Tim caught her up on recent events.
“So what you’re saying is that someone’s on a shopping spree in other people’s houses.” When Valerie stretched out her legs, she had room to spare, and Tim was struck by the disparity between his two colleagues. Born in French Polynesia and raised in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, what Valerie lacked in physical stature she made up for in vigor and grit.
